


Lychees and Lucky Strike

by yinghuochong



Series: Song Inspired [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Memories, Murder, Past Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Smoking, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yinghuochong/pseuds/yinghuochong
Summary: He was floating, high off the feeling of soft lips pressed against his -- the other tasting like lychees and Lucky Strike. The combination was a peculiar one, but one he would come to love.





	Lychees and Lucky Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Troye Sivan's song, "Lucky Strike"  
> Some of the lyrics appear at the beginning. (Also, if you haven't heard this song, you definitely should because it is a masterpiece.)
> 
> WARNING: Mature topics are a big part of this story. Including sexual abuse, suicide/attempted suicide, smoking (tobacco), implied sexual content.
> 
> Minho's appearance is based off of his "I am WHO?" photos.
> 
> I'm not even going to lie, totally cried while writing this. I am so sorry if I have caused you any pain.

_'Cause you're safe like spring time_  
_Short days, long nights, boy_  
_Tell me all the ways to love you_  
_'Cause you taste like Lucky Strikes_  
_You drag, I light, boy_  
_Tell me all the ways to love you_

 

_\--------_

 

Jisung leaned on the balcony railing, a black shirt hung open on his frame, the moonlight making his skin glow. He shivered in the wind, goosebumps appearing on his chest. He took another deep drag from his cigarette, the taste familiar and spreading warmth through him. He closed his eyes, feeling soft hands run across his body, lips ghosting lovingly against the side of his neck. He gripped the metal rung in an attempt to anchor himself. Whispers of _I love you_ floated through his head.

“I really wish you would quit that.” His girlfriend’s voice sounded exasperated somewhere behind him, shattering his blissful memory.

“Yeah?” He quipped, “Well I wish a lot of things. We don’t always get what we want.”

“Must you always do that afterwards?” She huffed.

“Well you don’t like it when I smoke beforehand.”

“Who wants to sleep with someone who smells like cigarettes all the time?”

_I do_ , he thought.

“You know, your mother told me that you never used to smoke.” His girlfriend continued.

He scrunched his face in disgust, he detested his mother. “You spoke to my mother?” He asked accusingly.

“Well,” She hesitated, “yes. She was worried about you. She hadn’t heard from you in awhile.”

“Maybe if she hadn’t abandoned me I would be more interested in keeping up.”

“She already told you she was sorry.”

“Because sorry fixes everything, right?” He snarled. “I should just forgive her for leaving me behind to endure literal hell.”

“Don’t get started on that again.” She nagged, “We’re not talking about your childhood issues, we’re talking about your bad habit. The point is, she doesn’t know what caused you to start smoking, and neither do I, but this is getting ridiculous. You smoke a pack a day and have for the last three years.”

He waited for the words he had used to believe.

“They’re going to kill you someday.” She concluded.

_They didn’t kill me_ , a sweet laugh echoed through his head.

He ignored her. Inhaling more smoke slowly, trying to melt away this reality and reconnect with old images.

She growled in frustration. “Why do I even bother, huh? It’s like you don’t even care about the future -- about _our_ future. You never initiate anything anymore. I have to put in all of the effort. Like tonight, I bought new stuff because I thought you’d like it. You didn’t even comment on it. You’ve never even let me in the master bedroom, you always keep it locked. It’s weird. You never let me stay the night, either. I swear, sometimes when we’re together it’s like you’re thinking about someone else. It was like you were looking _through_ me instead of _at_ me the whole time. Your mind is always elsewhere... like you’re so distant... Are you even listening?”

He was. He had nothing to say, though. Everything she said was true.

He turned around and looked at her, she was right behind him now, visibly upset with tears lining the corner of her eyes.

“Do you even love me?” She began to cry, wringing her hands. “You’ve never said it.”

 

He blinked, not feeling even a little guilty. He had never loved her.

She stared at him expectantly. He held her gaze with a blank expression. He could faintly hear a voice teasingly say, _Actions speak louder than words_. The voice was right. Fuck, how he missed that voice. She got the message, hurt flashing across her face before being replaced by a fiery anger. She snatched the cigarette out of his hand and threw it off the balcony before shoving him harshly. He simply pulled a new one from the pack in his sweatpants pocket and lit it, unbothered.

“Are you fucking serious?” She started shouting at him, calling him every name in the book.

Yelling about what a horrible person he was and how could he do this to her, blah, blah, blah. He wasn’t listening anymore. They’d been through this several times before. It always started with his smoking and ended with her breaking up with him. They’ll spend a few weeks apart and he’ll sleep with whomever he can find during then only to have her knocking on his door to say she can’t be without him, they need each other, they were made to be together, and whatever other bullshit she believed. He would let her push him into bed and then he’d go out to the balcony to smoke it all away again beneath the moon.

It was a seemingly endless cycle. This was just another stage in it. To most, it would seem tiring and draining. To him, it didn’t matter. Nothing really did. He watched as she stormed around the apartment, breaking things and screaming. Finally, she slammed the door, leaving him in peace and quiet. He closed his eyes, taking another drag, and allowed himself to be swept away.

He was sixteen again and running from home. He was tired of being the subject of his uncle’s desires and he was tired of his aunt, his mother’s sister, ignoring it. They were blood but it didn’t matter to her because her husband was rich and gave her anything she wanted. So long as he could do whatever he wanted -- and what he wanted was Jisung.

When he was young, he had never understood why his mother left him or why his uncle would touch him in weird places. Whenever he voiced his thoughts to his aunt, she would just send him to his room to wait for his uncle to come home. He always felt sick to his stomach during then. He had even attempted to tell adults at school, but anyone who tried to help always disappeared from his life. His uncle was a powerful man who threatened people to the point where they fled or went into hiding. Eventually, he gave up trying.

He was required to attend school because his uncle wanted him to be well educated, even though he had every intention to lock him away when he turned eighteen. It would have happened, easily, if he hadn’t found a way to escape or, rather, if he hadn’t found the person who _was_ his escape.

He remembered skipping school one dreary day, typically afraid of the consequences of it but it didn’t really matter that time. He wasn’t planning on being around long enough to receive a punishment. He would go to the river, plunge into the depths, embrace the icy whitecaps, and welcome the stones that resided there. That was supposed to be the end. It had seemed like the only way to be free from the torture that awaited him at home -- if he could even call it that. To him, it felt more like a prison.

He had been leaning over the railing, mesmerized by the way the current smashed into the rocks and knowing that it would soon be carrying him, taking him on the same path. He could feel the water pulling him in, inviting him to jump. He honestly didn’t really want to but it was a better alternative than trying to run. He would have been hunted down in no time, having nowhere to go, and have been subjected to the worst torment in his life.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” A voice startled him, snapping him out of his trance.

He turned to look at the stranger, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, a boy not too much older than him but more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen. He just stared at the other’s profile, overwhelmed by the smooth skin and the prominent cheekbones. He noted the silver piercings that adorned the other’s earlobes and the way a cigarette was nestled between perfect lips, smoke lingering near them. His hair was black, like his clothes, the bangs styled in a small, side swept wave, looking windblown but somehow flawless. He was the edgy boy every girl must have swooned over.

“It's powerful, untameable, but so beautiful. Almost as if it’s calling out to you but you know that if you listen,” The older turned and locked eyes with him, the orbs dark and knowing, “it will kill you.”

Jisung had been speechless. He didn’t know what to say and didn’t think he could form words if he tried.

“What’s your name?” the other asked gently, as if he knew just how fragile Jisung was. “Mine is Minho, Lee Minho.”

“J-Jisung.” Was all he could manage to say and he was struggling even with that.

“Can I call you Jisungie?” He nodded timidly, Minho chuckled lightly at his shyness. “Do you want to get something to eat, Jisungie? You look weak, like you haven't eaten well in awhile.”

His breath hitched at the sound of the other saying his name, his heart skipping a beat. He was frozen momentarily. Minho was intuitive. Or maybe he just looked that malnourished. He wasn't sure. He had stopped eating recently because he only received food after his uncle got what he wanted. By the time he earned a bowl, he couldn't stomach even one bite without being sick.

“I-” He stuttered, “I-I don’t have any money.”

Minho smiled kindly, “Don’t worry, I will pay for it.”

“I will get in trouble if I go with you.” He found himself saying.

“Won’t you be in trouble anyways for skipping school?”

He felt his blood go cold. Was this gorgeous boy working for his uncle? He wouldn’t put it past that creep to hire young people. He was going to be tortured slowly and painfully. His instinct told him to flee. He turned on his heels and attempted to run, a strong hand grabbing his wrist and keeping him in place.

“Please don’t go!” Minho pleaded, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I was just teasing. I am also skipping class.”

His heart was pounding now. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the fact that he thought he was caught or the fact that Minho was touching him.

“Seriously, your secret is safe with me.” Minho promised, a reassuring smile on his face. “Even if the school found out, nothing too bad would happen anyways. Probably just detention or something dumb.”

Jisung was still visibly tense, though, his eyes wide and alert. They kept flicking back and forth, nervously looking for any signs of his uncle.

The other’s smile wavered, “You’re not afraid because of the school, are you?” He was too good at reading people.

Jisung lowered his head and shook it slightly.

Minho’s smile returned confidently after a moment, “Let me buy you something to eat, Jisungie.”

From then on, they had spent almost every day together. He learned a lot. Minho was two years older and would be graduating that year. He was always full of useless knowledge, but Jisung would argue that it wasn't useless because he enjoyed the random facts the older would spew. Minho loved rambutans and yes they were so much better than the longan fruit even though he thought they were a little too rich at times. Jisung had asked what the other thought of lychees. Minho had been perplexed at the name, making him laugh and insist that the older was missing out. Minho had begged him to introduce him to them when they were in season next. What was Jisung going to do, actually say no?

The older had always dreamed of pursuing a career in dance, it was his passion, but his father was a CEO who expected him to inherit the business. Minho had decent parents, but they didn't really _care_. He could do whatever he wanted except destroy his family name. He was to take a wife someday and sustain the lineage. Even if he, himself, did not take on the title of CEO, he would have to produce a son that would. Minho always joked that his parents would have a heart attack if only they knew he liked boys.

It wasn't long before Jisung was completely infatuated with the older. They went to separate schools, Minho to a private academy and Jisung to a regular public one. Regardless, they both skipped class regularly to sit in the park, or behind a convenience store, splitting a sandwich or a box of take out. Minho always made sure he ate, the older somehow chasing away the sickness he typically felt.

Sometimes they would talk nonstop and other times they would sit in silence, just enjoying the other's presence. Jisung loved any time he spent with Minho, enchanted by the way the other looked ethereal as smoke curled from his lips. At first, he wasn't really a fan of the smoking. It reminded him all too much of the fancy cigars his uncle liked to puff. The ones that were pressed against his inner thighs to show him how worthless he was. Minho's cigarettes were far different though, cheaper and sweeter. Or perhaps he only thought they were sweet because they looked so good, like candy, between the older’s pretty lips.

The first time they had kissed was in the summer, after Minho’s graduation. He hadn't been sure if the flavor he was experiencing was the boy he had fallen for or the cigarettes. Regardless, it was addicting. He'd come to realize later that the two practically went hand in hand. They had been sitting on the grass beneath a cherry blossom tree, peeling lychees. They had raced to see who was faster, Jisung won by a landslide. Minho had been so excited to try them, he didn’t even care that he lost, and it had made Jisung’s heart flutter. He was peeling the last one, with every intention to give it to Minho, when the older leaned close and kissed him gently. He was floating, high off the feeling of soft lips pressed against his -- the other tasting like lychees and Lucky Strike. The combination was a peculiar one, but one he would come to love.

When Minho pulled away, Jisung could feel his breath stutter. He blushed as the older laughed sweetly. Flustered, he offered the other the last lychee nut. His face heated up even more as Minho ate the fruit from his hand, pulling their mouths together immediately afterwards. His heart rate was out of control as they passed the lychee back and forth, sharing the sweet treat until there was nothing left but their heavy breaths and the pit. Although Minho could well afford them, he never ate lychees unless he was with Jisung. It was something they always shared.

It became a routine. A kiss to say hello, a smoke while they walked to buy food, hands intertwined while Minho ordered, they waited with their foreheads pressed together and their lips brushing. The older would kiss his cheeks as he stuffed them with food, telling him how irresistible he was with his squishy face. Minho would encourage him to lay his head in the other's lap when they finished eating. He'd bask in the feeling of fingers combing through his hair as he watched the older smoke above him, feeling full in more ways than one.

It had been one of those days where Minho seemed too deep in thought to hold a conversation, he always seemed more thoughtful on the weekends. Jisung didn't mind, he never did. He was content just being near the older.

“Jisungie,” the other said suddenly.

He opened his eyes to see Minho looking down at him with his own set of dark, doe ones. He hummed in response.

“Can I ask you something really serious?”

He nodded, a little nervous, “Sure..”

“What happens at home?”

He felt himself tense, worry flashing in Minho's eyes. In all the time they spent together, Jisung had never talked about his situation. The older knew that he didn't want to, never pressing despite the curiosity that was ever present within him. However, with the undeniable fact that they were falling in love, it was something that needed to be discussed.

Jisung remained silent for a while, debating whether he should tell Minho the truth or not. It wasn't like he didn't want to give himself completely over to the older, knowing that the lack of discussion about the subject was still an unspoken, looming, barrier between them. He feared the consequences. Any time he had ever told anyone about the hell he had grown up in, the person always seemed to go away. Scared off by his uncle’s death threats. He didn't want Minho to leave or be driven away.

“Jisungie, I will never leave you.” The older understood him too well, able to read even his darkest fears.

He felt tears spill over and he buried his face in his hands. Minho coaxed him to sit up, pulling his hands from his face and kissing them lovingly.

“Please tell me,” Minho asked, “You can tell me anything.”

He had sobbed in the older’s arms as he started his story from the beginning. Recalling the moment he found out his mother wasn't coming back for him and the first time his uncle touched him. He cried while the older pressed kisses into his hair and soothingly rubbed his back as he recounted some of the worst punishments he had ever received. Minho was a good listener, offering him comfort and stroking his face.

“Jisungie, the day we met,” the older paused, fingers tapping nervously on his lower back. “Were you going to kill yourself?”

The question seemed rhetorical, as if the other didn't actually expect a verbal confirmation. Jisung couldn't look at Minho feeling ashamed, he hung his head. He felt his face being lifted by the strong hands that had kept him from running. He squeezed his eyes shut, to avoid looking at the older. There were fleeting kisses on his cheeks, tracing the path of his tears.

“Will you please promise me something?” Minho whispered against his skin, voice wavering.

Jisung opened his eyes, startled to see the other attempt to wipe at his own face. The older’s lips quivered and Jisung had never felt more sorry in his life. He hated himself for making him cry.

“Yes,” he heard himself saying. He would do anything to make sure Minho was never sad again.

“Please promise me you will never try that again.” The older’s face was covered in his own tears now. “I don't know what I would do without you. _Please_ , promise me.”

“I promise.” He sniffed.

Minho wrapped him tightly in a hug, kissing softly along his neck.

“I have a promise to make, too.” He mumbled, “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Jisungie, when you turn eighteen I want you to move in with me. Leave your aunt and uncle and come live with me. I will make sure to have a nice apartment then and lots of money. Let me protect you and I will give you whatever you want.”

“I only want you.”

“Then I will give you me.”

He had fallen asleep, exhausted from crying, curled into Minho's chest beneath their favorite tree, as a cloud of smoke lingered around them. It was peaceful and everything he didn't think he should have. Minho had spent countless breaths trying to convince him that he was perfect and deserved the world. He still didn't believe him, but he pretended he did to satiate the older. He knew the other knew, but Minho was kind enough not to call him out on it.

Just when Jisung thought that maybe he _had_ struggled enough in life to have earned the love of someone so incredible, his sense of serenity shattered. A rough hand grabbed him from Minho's arms, the pair jolting awake simultaneously. He opened his eyes and was met with the terrifying sneer of his uncle.

“Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?” The grip on his arm was like a vice, nails and rings digging into his skin, and he winced.

“I-I,” Jisung stuttered, sheer panic running through him. “I-I was…” He tried to pry the hand off him.

“Let go, you're hurting him!” Minho stepped in between him and his uncle, shoving the latter backwards, with a strength he didn't know the older had.

His uncle stumbled, releasing his wrist. Minho seemed fearless, not flinching when Jisung’s uncle got in his face. He could tell his uncle's hands itched to strike the older boy. Minho's lip curled in a snarl, not faltering and staring down the man who hurt Jisung, _his_ Jisung -- the one he loved dearly.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Jisung’s uncle spat, “That boy is mine and you need to get out of my fucking way before I snap your goddamn neck.”

Minho balled his fists. “He’s not property, he's a human being. He deserves to be treated with love and respect.” He snapped.

His uncle cackled, “That boy isn't worth _anything_. Don't waste your time caring for filth.”

“Take that back.” Minho ordered, jaw set.

“Not a chance. Now get out of the fucking way or you'll regret it.”

Jisung could see the evil, twisted look in his uncle's eye, the one that seared holes into his skin and choked him until he passed out. He feared that if Minho didn't leave, his uncle would all but kill him. The last thing he wanted was Minho getting hurt on his behalf.

“Minho,” he begged, tugging at the older’s arm. “Please, just go home. I'll be okay.”

“I promised I'd keep you safe.” He argued.

“I know, I know. Not now, but soon. When I turn eighteen, right?”

Minho didn't make a move to leave.

“ _Please_ ,” he continued, “You can’t protect me if you’re dead.”

“I won’t have anything to protect if you’re dead.”

“He would never kill me, he enjoys my pain too much, but you…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Minho gave his uncle one more glare before looking back at him with concern in his eyes.

“When will I see you again?” Minho asked softly.

“Soon.” Jisung said, knowing very well it was a promise he couldn’t keep.

He didn’t see Minho until well into the next school year. His uncle had dragged him into the house and beaten him until he bled. Screamed at him, forbade him from seeing Minho ever again, told him he was a slut and nothing more. The word had been etched into his skin, salt literally rubbed into the open flesh. He had taken it all with his teeth clenched, determined to survive so he could see the older boy once more. He spent the rest of his summer locked inside his room waiting for his uncle to come in and torment him.

By the time the school year started, most of the traces from his brutal torture had faded into faintly discolored skin or shiny scars. There would be no reason to skip classes this time. He hadn’t heard from Minho and hadn’t tried to contact the other either -- there was no way to. He didn’t have a phone and he didn’t have a computer. Besides, he had thought, it would be better, safer, if Minho forgot about him or if he stayed away. He did his best in school, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered. He wouldn’t be going to college anyway.

The first day he decided to skip school that year was on his birthday. He really hated how the teachers pitied him so they worked especially hard to make a big deal out of it. As far as they knew, he was homeless and poor. It was the best way to explain his distant behavior and because of it they were lenient when it had come to his attendance, or lack thereof, the year prior. They had no idea how much he had wished that were the case instead of what was.

He was on autopilot, walking the familiar path that had always lead him away from school towards the one place he considered his safe haven. Before he knew it, he was standing at the edge of the park, he had frequented so often, staring at the tree that had always provided him with perfect shade. Sitting beneath it was the boy who gave him life. The older scrambled to his feet upon noticing him. His own body reacted before his mind, dropping his book bag and sprinting.

He barreled into Minho, inhaling the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and feeling how perfectly they fit together. There were tears streaming down his face when the older collided their mouths together, desperate tongues and teeth meeting for the first time in months. They kissed like they needed it as much as air itself, not caring that they had fallen to the ground in a mess of limbs. Minho wiped at his face, a mixture of trying to dry tears and just wanting to _feel_ him.

“I thought you’d never come.” The older whispered, voice breaking.

“H-how long have you been waiting?” Jisung asked, on the verge of crying again.

“Everyday, during my lunch hour, I sit here and look for you.” Jisung choked on a sob, “Except on the weekends, then I spend all day if I can… but, today, well, today is a special occasion so I took the whole day off work.”

His heart hurt. He had no idea that Minho had been so devoted, desperately trying to see him again. Had he known, he would have come the first day he was allowed to leave his room. He had just assumed that this was only for a moment, that they were only for a moment, and would cherish the small window of bliss. He figured that Minho would be better off without him, but the older’s eyes looked fragile, vulnerable, as one set of fingers interlaced firmly with his while the other brushed repeatedly across his face. He was glad he had been wrong.

“I-I had hoped you would come today.” Minho cleared his throat, “I brought you a birthday gift.”

Jisung’s heart fluttered to life for the first time in awhile as the older unzipped a small cooler bag, pulling out a container of lychees.

“I know they’re not really in season,” Minho reasoned, “but it’s been so long since we’ve had them…”

Jisung didn’t let him finish, kissing him briefly and sweetly, apologizing for all the time the other spent waiting. The older chased his lips as he pulled away, connecting them once more. He was sure this was love. He peeled a lychee and placed it teasingly between his teeth. Minho wasted no time in pressing an open mouth kiss on his, licking at the fruit and the juices on his tongue.

Time was meaningless as they ate every lychee like that, thinking that the sun moved through the sky too quickly. They were tangled up together on the grass, basking in the warmth of the sun and each other’s bodies, kissing lazily.

Upon graduation, Minho had given up his dream of dance to learn how to run a company. If he pursued his own desires, his parents would cut off his money and he wasn't sure he could provide all that he had promised to Jisung on dance alone. His parents had given him all the freedom he had wanted when he was younger, not caring if he smoked or skipped school. As long as he got good grades and didn't taint his family name. He now spent every weekday at his father’s company and every weekend beneath their pretty pink tree at the park, counting down the days until Jisung turned eighteen.

“Jisungie,” Minho breathed against his neck, he hummed to show he was listening, “I missed you so much.”

They fell into each other again, just like that. Jisung skipped half of his classes to meet Minho for lunch every day. He thought an hour was too short, but he wasn’t complaining either after being apart for so long. Minho always brought him food and would let Jisung nap on him. The older would wake him when it was time to leave and walk him back to school, kissing him frequently. During the weekends, Jisung would be tied up in his room and Minho would have to physically restrain himself from committing murder. He did his best to keep himself occupied, wishing for weekends to disappear for Jisung’s sake.

Jisung knew that Minho both hated and was grateful for mondays. It would be their first time meeting after two whole days. It would be the start of the week and the end of Jisung’s torment. He did his best not to limp or show any discomfort, but it was no use. Minho could read him like an open book. They never talked about the details, the older would just ask him if he hurt anywhere. He would kiss the other to say he was fine and Minho would never believe him.

The older would always lay him down and soothingly rub his sore limbs or treat his cuts, pulling first aid supplies from his bag or cooler, whichever he had that day. Then Minho would light a cigarette to calm himself down after discovering the new marks of abuse on Jisung’s body each time. Jisung had really missed the image of the older letting smoke leak from his lips. As sexy as it looked from the outside, he wondered what it was doing to Minho’s insides.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho brushed some hair away from his eyes.

“Nothing,”

“Nice try. You know I know you better than that. Tell me, baby. What's on your mind?”

“I'm just thinking..”

“About what?”

“Aren’t you afraid they are going to kill you one day?”

“Everyone dies, but,” Minho was smiling fondly, his cigarette burning between his fingers. “Han Jisung, you will be the death of me long before the cigarettes get me.”

“What does that mean?” A small pout of confusion on his face.

“When you're with me, I can feel my heart skipping beats and my chest physically hurts from how much I love you. It’s _dangerous_ how much I need you.”

“Stop, you're just saying that.” He blushed furiously.

“Jisungie, I'm so serious you have no idea. You're beautiful, really. Absolutely perfect and everything I could ever want. I hope you know that.” He took another drag, eyes sparkling with love.

Jisung found himself crawling up the older, his mouth lingering above the other’s, brushing their lips but not kissing, _yet_ , just hovering. He wanted to breathe in the smoke that Minho let out first. The older raised an eyebrow at him and he licked his lips briefly while nodding. Minho’s eyes dropped to his parted mouth, before moving closer until they touched, releasing the smoke he had in his lungs. It was their first shotgun kiss and it quickly became one of Jisung’s guilty pleasures.

The first time they had made love was on Minho’s birthday. Instead of spending the day at the park, the older took him back to his exquisite apartment that had large windows and marble floors. Minho tried to cook for them, they laughed at how he burned the food. He joked about how he should take a cooking class on the weekends instead of dancing. While they waited for food to be delivered, Minho took a shower to wash away the sweat from his dance practice earlier. The older had been taking fridays off from work to give himself time to keep up with his passion, having already completed all of his work by the end of every thursday.

Jisung was wandering around, opening random doors in the apartment. This was something he wasn’t allowed to do at home. He was enjoying the freedom now because the next day he would be bound. He thought that this unit was way too big for a single person, wondering if it ever felt lonely. Someday he would learn the answer to his question. After exploring the vast floor plan, most of the rooms bare or only containing one or two items, he stumbled into one that was full. The concept of only having one bedroom furnished, besides the master, was a strange one but the room had a familiar, and comforting, feel to it. He stepped farther in, running his fingers over the duvet and across the dresser. In a picture frame near the closet, there was a pressed cluster of flowers and a Polaroid picture of him hanging on the wall.

He remembered that day well, it was back before Minho had graduated. The older had been talking about different flowers and how his grandparents used to have a vast garden that he liked to play in when he was younger. Jisung had been so at peace listening to the other, he had drifted off. When he had woken up, Minho had been dead asleep. He had been running out of daylight and needed to return home or he would surely be punished. He hadn’t wanted to just leave the older nor wake him up just to say goodbye. So instead, he picked a small bunch of blossoms from the prettiest branch he could reach and had left it tucked beneath Minho’s curled fingers. His heart swelled, the picture was of him sleeping against the older’s legs. The moment was tastefully captured and he almost couldn’t believe it was him.

“Do you like it?”

He startled, turning to see Minho leaned against the door frame, half dressed with a lazy smile on his face. His hair was still wet, messily pushed to the side, and a black shirt hung, unbuttoned, on his frame. He looked celestial in a pair of ripped jeans and an open shirt, his dancer’s body on display. On the next words, Jisung couldn’t breathe.

“It’s for you.”

The moments after that seemed too good to be true. Minho lead him back to the master room where the older worshiped his body, making love to him slow, and sweet. There was not an inch of his skin that hadn’t been kissed, caressed, loved. Initially, Minho had been hesitant at the first sight of his bare body. He had curled in on himself, feeling embarrassed and ashamed of the marks and scars. The older had assured him he was beautiful, but didn’t want to hurt him, encouraging him to speak up if he ever wanted to stop. He never did. Every second was gentle, euphoric, and so much more than he deserved. He never wanted it to end.

They were half covered by the sheets, the sun long gone and the room filled with moonlight. Minho was breathing softly against the pillow, his eyes shut in a post orgasmic bliss. The older looked so beautiful with his hair unnaturally messy, lips red and swollen, marks blossoming along his bare chest, skin glowing in the moonbeams. Jisung never wanted to forget this image. He gently reached for Minho’s camera, that was nicely displayed on the nightstand beside another framed photo of him, careful not to wake the other. He captured a picture, the shutter rousing the other from his sleep. At the sound of the photo printing, the older opened his eyes, an amused smile on his face.

“S-sorry,” Jisung squeaked. Minho waved away the apology, reaching over him to set the camera back down on the side table. The other pulled their bodies flush together, sighing in satisfaction at the contact, pressing soft lips against his neck, and tangling their legs together.

“It was only a matter of time,” he murmured, “before you finally got me back for all the pictures I’ve taken of you.”

Jisung had received an awful punishment that weekend. Not only had he not come home until morning, but he also returned with traces of Minho all over him. He smelled like cigarette smoke and his body had way more marks than his uncle had left. He received the usual beating, being told he was such whore and that he belonged only to his uncle. He was a slut but he was an owned slut so he couldn’t give himself to anyone else. It should have been one of the worst weekends ever, but despite the pain, he didn’t hate his life. Throughout the abuse, he kept replaying the night before over and over again, using it to counter the torture. The next monday, he had staggered towards the park only to find that Minho wasn’t there.

A week went by before the older returned to the tree, an oxygen tank beside him and a cigarette between his lips.

“Hi, Jisungie.” The older smiled, a tube beneath his nose.

It had turned out that Minho had collapsed at the dance studio the day after his birthday and had been in the hospital being treated for shortness of breath. He only had to wear the tube for one more week before his oxygen therapy was over. Jisung had insisted that he quit smoking, despite loving the way the older looked with a cigarette in his mouth.

Minho huffed indignantly, but still said, “Anything for you.”

For the next year, Jisung worked closely with Minho to help wean him off tobacco. Whenever the older felt cravings, he would pull their mouths together and they would scrape the fruit off the lychee pit as he applied a nicotine patch to the other’s skin. Sooner or later, Minho began to subconsciously associate the taste of lychees with the rush of nicotine. On the days when that wasn’t enough, he spread himself on the bed and let the older do anything and everything to him.

A week before Jisung’s eighteenth birthday, Minho pleaded for him to stay the night instead of going home.

“I don’t know, Jisungie,” The older had a sad pout on his face, “Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t think you should go back.”

Jisung just frowned, “Why?”

“I am worried that once you go back, he’ll never let you leave…”

Minho had been right. His uncle would have locked him away for the rest of his life but it didn’t matter because Jisung was safe living with Minho, instead, and everything was perfect. The older had purchased a home for them to stay in on the weekends and for holidays. It had seemed more like a permanent place where they could build a life. The yard was big and the house was gorgeous.

“For us,” Minho had whispered softly the first night they spent there.

It had been Jisung’s favorite place in the world. He liked it more than the apartment because it was _theirs_ . The apartment had always been Minho’s, but this, _this_ , was something just for the two of them. There were countless afternoons they just walked through the grass towards a little cluster of cherry blossom trees that had been planted and were thriving. Jisung liked to check on them often. He liked to sit beneath them and just kiss, thinking it was a good representation of their love. Their nights consisted of dancing together before falling into bed.

Minho had still worshiped his body, still held him like he would disappear, still kissed him like it was their first time. Jisung knew their love was real and Minho had kept every promise he ever made -- all but one.

_I will never leave you_.

Life’s biggest lie is thinking that there is a forever out there somewhere.

_Everyone dies._

Did that have to include his Minho, though?

_Then I will give you me_.

It was ironic, really, the way Minho had died. Many believed the smoking would kill him, that he'd burn to death from the inside out. Instead, it had been the other way around. Jisung had come home to find his whole world in flames. He had been detained by the police as the fire department sifted through the rubble. It had killed him to learn that Minho had been shot long before the fire was set. He had died that day too.

Jisung had been the prime suspect. The last to see Minho alive and the only one who had known about the property. Minho’s parents hadn’t known about Jisung and neither had the girlfriend who lived hours away. To be fair, he hadn’t known about her either, but it didn’t matter because he was the one Minho had truly loved. Officials traced the bullet back to a pistol registered to his uncle -- the gun had been reported stolen the day he hadn’t come home. It hadn’t helped that Minho had made him the beneficiary on all of his accounts, unbeknownst to him. The will also gave everything to him. He hadn’t even known Minho _had_ a will. Minho’s parents were furious and so was the girlfriend.

In the world’s eyes, he was clearly guilty before proven innocent. He had used Minho for his money, taken advantage of his kindness,  _and_ turned him gay -- only to murder him in cold blood. The trial was to be televised as this concerned the murder of Lee Minho, who would have been the youngest CEO in his industry. Minho’s father pressed for the death penalty. His own uncle claimed that Minho had been abusive to the point where Jisung was not mentally stable and that he needed to come home. Jisung, himself, couldn’t form any words, couldn’t cry, couldn’t _breathe_.

If it hadn’t been for Minho’s personal attorney, Jisung would have definitely been sentenced to life in prison. Instead, the attorney was able to clearly trace the murder back to his uncle. The evidence found showed that his uncle had stalked Minho for months, trying to find where he had been hiding Jisung. Eventually, his uncle had discovered that there was a private property that the soon to be CEO often disappeared to. The plan had been simple; break in, enter, take Jisung. Only things hadn’t gone according to plan and the person home alone was not Jisung, but Minho. His uncle had confessed to shooting Minho in the chest and setting fire to the home. He was sentenced to life in prison.

It hadn’t made Jisung feel any better, though, because Minho was still gone. His Minho who loved the moon, who would dance until his body gave out, who always tasted like lychees and Lucky Strike. His heart had been torn in two and, upon release, he returned to the apartment -- the unit cold, empty, and desolate. They had moved everything in to the house. The police kept an eye on his building as he was the target for a lot of hate and death threats despite being innocent.

Everything else he had ever loved also turned to ash that day. The Polaroids of them from over the years. The love letters written on the lids of photo boxes. The clothes that smelled like his Minho and the blankets they used to cuddle under. Everything was gone. All evidence of his precious lover incinerated. Minho only existed in his head now, all traces of his life, of their love, burned away.

Jisung came in from the balcony, not bothering to cover the glass, wanting to see the moon. Minho’s old black shirt hung open on his frame, Jisung had been wearing it the day his lover died. It no longer smelled like Minho, it only smelled like cigarette smoke. The scent was similar but not exact, Minho had an extra bit of sweetness to his skin -- perhaps from the lychees. The moonlight reflected off of the polished marble floors. It looked like a lake or a river, Jisung thought he would like to drown in it.

_It’s amazing, isn’t it? It's powerful, untameable, but so beautiful. Almost as if it’s calling out to you but you know that if you listen, it will kill you._

He took another deep drag from his cigarette. His girlfriend, rather ex-girlfriend, would scold him for smoking inside, but he didn't care. It wasn’t her apartment. It wasn’t his either. It was Minho’s, and Minho would have let him do whatever because they were in love. The taste was no longer comforting, it only brought him immense pain as memories swirled in his head. He walked down the hall, passing the room Minho had once decorated for him.

_Do you like it? It’s for you._

He used the key from around his neck to unlock the master bedroom. As the door opened, he could see the room the way it used to be. A big bed in the center of it with photos of Jisung hung everywhere, illuminated by the strings of lights he loved so much. Minho’s beloved camera sat where it always had, on the nightstand beside a picture of him. He knew that under the sheets was Minho, bare and beautiful. It was just like the night of his eighteenth birthday. Minho had held him close and had shown him how much he loved him.

_Actions speak louder than words_.

Minho had explained, pressing soft kisses all over his cheeks. What he wouldn't give just to hold that body, touch those lips, see that face, one more time.

Tears clouded his vision, preventing him from taking in the scene. He blinked them away along with the memory. Now all that was in the room was a single mattress and blanket. He hadn’t the strength to use the room for anything or with anyone. He kept it as a place for only himself, to escape the harsh reality that he was alone because his Minho was taken from him too early. On the mattress was his most prized possession, his only picture, the most beautiful moment. It was the one he had taken on Minho’s nineteenth birthday, the first night they were together. It was perfection but so painful. He wanted to hold it one last time.

He and Minho had made many promises to each other. Minho had promised to keep him safe, to protect him, to love him -- but he had also promised never to leave. Minho had only made him promise one thing.

_Please promise me you will never try that again._

If he had jumped, though, Minho would still be alive.

_I don't know what I would do without you_.

But what was he supposed to do without Minho?

_Please, promise me._

Would Minho hate him for not keeping it?

Jisung had made promises to himself as well, though. To love Minho forever, to always thank him, to give him everything, to always be with him _._

So he stood on the edge of the balcony, closed his eyes, feeling soft hands run across his body.

_Minho,_

Lips ghosted lovingly against the side of his neck.

_I’m sorry._

He gripped the Polaroid in his hand in an attempt to anchor himself.

_I can’t keep my promise._

Whispers of _I love you_ floated through his head.

_I love you_.

He stepped off the edge.

_Jisungie,_

_I thought you’d never come._


End file.
